(Oh, famous last words)
Saturday 2 July
Tonight I am sleeping under canvas for the first time in thirty
years. I've given up asking myself how it happened, I've just
accepted it as inevitable. It is our sailing club's Family Fun
Weekend, which means adults get grouchy, miserable and drunk; and
children get wet.
As I write, around fifty children are taking part in various
aquatic activities. There is a line of canoes directly in front of
me on the lake and, one by one, children are clambering along the
hulls. Of course it only ends one way: a wobble, a scream, a
gigantic splash. My own child was last seen an hour ago in a
raft-building group. They are yet to take to the water, so I think
we can probably conclude he's not going to be a marine
engineer.
Lupe the lurcher is decidedly unimpressed by it all. She always
has a bad feeling when the car gets loaded with stuff, including
her. She knows it won't go well. Now, in spite of the luxury of her
own private tent, she is suffering from the heat and sulking
because she's not allowed to join in the water games. I am sitting
outside the tent, trying to write a short story for the Daily
Mirror. Five hundred words, in a crime genre, deadline six days
time.
Do you know what, I'd a hundred times rather write ten thousand
words by next weekend than a 500 word short story. I just can't do
short. Witness my latest, as-yet-untitled book five. I swore blind
it would be a short, elegantly simple book, just under 100,000
words. (My previous have been 25% longer than that) It's currently
at 114,000 and climbing. The mind is willing, but the fingers are
weak, they just keep on tapping.
I can't do simple either. My latest plot is the most torturous
I've ever come up with. Even I don't understand what's going on
half the time.
So, a complete story, with a beginning, a middle and an end, a
sprinkling of characterization, a pinch of suspense and a large
dollop of atmosphere. In 500 words. It can't be done. I'm already
grouchy and miserable. Better go get drunk.
Later
I am a bit drunk. But a whole lot happier. The obliging and
exceptionally competent Andy C took me out in an RS Vision (2 man
dinghy) and taught me how to sail it. It's all about not bending
elbows, apparently, and now I can not bend elbows with the best of
them. Small child, meantime, has had a ball, kayaking, sailing,
canoeing. This evening, the sun set slowly, casting light like
finely spun gold over the lake, we lit a bonfire, chucked a boat on
it and felt like Vikings watching the flames flicker over the
boat's contours. It's all very Swallows and Amazons and, yes, I
will have another glass of wine.
Sunday 3 July
There is a reason I don't camp. Small child and I arrived at our
tent last night to find Mr B pushing up Zzzzs. Only two mattresses
in the tent. He'd grabbed one, small child quickly hurled himself
on the other. Only two pillows in the tent. Where are the rest?
Men's changing rooms! Mr B, of course, had one. Before I'd finished
grumbling, small child had snuggled into the other. I'm left to
spend the night on bare ground, pillow-less, in a claustrophobic
sleeping bag and no loo closer than two hundred yards. What are you
lot like, you campers? It's not bloody sensible!
In a few moments, the first activity of the day will get
underway. It is a treasure hunt race around the lake, three to a
boat. When we told small child we would be doing it as a family he
declared he wanted to do it with people he liked, who had a chance
of winning. He's nine, and he hates us already.
In spite of all this, I'm still in reasonably good mood at
finding myself on two important shortlists in advance of the
Harrogate Crime Festival. The shortlist for the Dagger in the
Library was announced last month: (Me, RJ Ellory, Jason Goodwin, Mo
Hayder, Susan Hill, Philip Kerr), whilst that for the Theakston's
Old Peculier prize just a couple of days ago. Also on that are Lee
Child, Mark Billingham, Stuart McBride, Andrew Taylor and William
Ryan. My punters' tip: McBride, although personally I'd love to see
Lee get it this year. Even in the Bolton household, you see, there
is no illusion that the tankard might be coming home. As small
child pointed out when he heard the news, 'So, Mummy, that's two
prizes you won't win.'
The short story is currently at 630 words with some major gaps.
Work to be done. But first, the Bolton family has to take to the
water and kick some serious butt.
Enjoy the rest of this glorious weekend, everyone and thanks
from the bottom of my heart for voting for me. Getting on those
shortlists feels pretty fab, even under canvas!